


Safe in the Dark

by hailtherandom



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Beverly Katz is a god, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Impact Play, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Nightmares, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailtherandom/pseuds/hailtherandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Beverly is five on his half-full speed dial because it's the easiest number to hit when he grasps at his phone in the heat of panic and listens to the static rush in his ears, in his breath, from bottom to top and over again.<br/>Her voice always sounds far away when she answers with, "Will?" and Will nods to the air and breathes harder and Beverly always understands."</p><p>Will goes to Beverly when everything becomes too much. Beverly takes care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This is a strictly platonic Will/Beverly friendship. 
> 
> Title taken from the song by Ludo of the same name.

Will doesn't have many numbers in his phone.

Beverly is one of the few who doesn't even need a last name. 

He's got dog sitters by their addresses and distant relatives by their relations and old friends by their full names and people from work always, always ending with FBI. 

He's got Jack Crawford under 'Emergency' and Alana under 'Dr. Bloom'. 

And Beverly under 'Beverly'.

She's five on his half-full speed dial because it's the easiest number to hit when he grasps at his phone in the heat of panic and listens to the static rush in his ears, in his breath, from bottom to top and over again.

Her voice always sounds far away when she answers with, "Will?" and Will nods to the air and breathes harder and Beverly always understands.

"I'm at home," or "I'm in the car," or "I'm in my lecture hall in Quantico and I can't get out," "I'm in the woods behind my house and I don't know why," "I'm driving back from work and there are feathers lining my vision."

And it never scares Beverly off, and she always says, "I'll come get you, okay?"

Will mouths 'okay' to the speaker and lets out a shuddery breath and Beverly murmurs a quiet encouragement while the slick sounds of a jacket being pulled on fill the background silence and she hangs up with a promise and knocks on his door half an hour later with a comforting smile and a, "hey, Will."

She loads him up in her car, compact and innocuous and dark blue, and they drive for a while. Beverly keeps watch on the road, doesn't even need to look at Will, but at some point during the drive, Will inevitably extends his hand and Beverly holds his wrist tight. She's got long fingers, almost long enough to touch her thumb to the nail of her middle finger, and Will longs for the day her nails scrape together because she grounds him so tightly.

She drives back to her apartment because Will likes it better than his house. (The first time he'd been there had been brief enough, and strictly professional, stopping by for a quick consultation about a case, and he'd had a hard time leaving even then.) It's always dark when she parks in her back corner spot, because Will never calls when his nightmares can be soothed by daylight, and slides out from her side of the car. Will always feels a bit lost, untethered, for the few seconds it takes Beverly to get around her car and open his door, and then her hand is back on his and it never leaves as she helps him out of the car and up the outside stairs to her third-floor apartment. Will is silent as she unlocks the door and nudges him in, then lets him go to shrug out of her jacket and scarf and hang them up by the door, to toe off her shoes and put her keys back on their hook, to go start water for tea. Will stands stock still, watching her move around the small kitchen out of the corner of his eye, and rubs his wrist where there are, more often than not, small whitened indents from her fingers.

It's only when the kettle's on to boil and the tea bags are in their mugs - earl grey for her and chamomile for him - that Beverly turns her full attention back to Will. He stills under her gaze like it's a physical touch and doesn't flinch away as she walks up to him. He stares at her shoulder and she doesn't force eye contact, just touches his cheek and asks, "what did you see?"

It varies, from time to time. Sometimes it's the stag; sometimes it's Garrett Jacob Hobbs, distorted in the corners of his vision and gone when he turns around; tonight it's the latest victim they've found, run through the throat with a metal pipe that drips blood onto the floor that Will could swear he slipped in when he went to let the dogs outside for a bit. Beverly doesn't press for any more details than he's willing to give, doesn't draw away at any of his horrible visions, just stands and lets him speak and it's refreshing for once, to know that she doesn't want anything from him but the honesty that he's comfortable with.

When he's done, he looks up, and the eye contact has become their signal that Will is ready to throw it all off and let something fresh and pure claim his mind. It's an unasked question and an unspoken reply and something soft in Beverly's eyes gets warmer and a little bit harder as she says, "on your knees, Will."

He drops, undignified as ever, and his knees sting from the kitchen tile, but it fades when Beverly cards her fingers through his hair and murmurs, "good." She leaves him for a second to pour water in the mugs, because the water's always done boiling by the time Will's done speaking, then takes the mugs into her living room without a word. Will follows after her; he'd crawled the first time, but he felt too uncomfortable with it and Beverly had looked honestly confused when she saw him sidle up to her feet; now he rises unsteadily and lets himself drop back down only once she's sat on the couch with her mug in her hands, dunking the tea bag a little. 

"Drink," Beverly says softly, and Will reaches over and dutifully takes a sip of his own tea. It tastes like heat and a hint of flavor, and warms him from the pit of his stomach out. Beverly generally makes him finish the whole mug before she does anything else, and Will doesn't fight it. He just takes small sips of his tea and closes his eyes as Beverly strokes his hair and his cheek again. 

It's companionable silence, as opposed to the oppressive silence that permeates Will's house when he's alone, silence that he doesn't feel like he has to fill with _something_. Silence that his brain does not interpret as a trigger or a danger or a reason to stop functioning properly. It's broken only by the slow rush of liquid against ceramic, and the little sighs they let out after a particularly long sip. It fills Will's mind, replaces the static with a rhythm of _raise the mug, take a sip, swallow and listen for the same above your head_. 

Once he's finished, Beverly takes both their mugs and puts them in the sink. She moves quietly, but not silently, so Will can hear her but won't be overwhelmed by it. She stands behind him and undoes the buckle of her belt, and he sits up a bit straighter, tilting his head back.

 

( _The second time he'd knelt at Beverly's feet and let her twist fingers through his hair, he'd rubbed his neck with one hand and shyly asked, "do you have a… A collar or something?"_

_Beverly had looked down, eyebrows raised. "A what?"_

_"Like a dog collar. I think it would help me, a little. Contain me."_

_"I don't have any pets," Beverly had said. "Don't you have a bunch of dogs?"_

_"Yeah, but I don't collar them. They just run around outside."_

_Beverly had stood and dug a thin scarf out of her dresser and tied it tight around his neck until Will could feel the outside seams beginning to cut into his throat. Beverly had wrapped the ends around her hand once, twice, and pulled gently until they could both see the hitches in Will's chest and the fluttering of his eyelids as he let himself surrender to the pressure._

_Beverly never bought Will a collar, but she always made sure to have something else on hand.)_

 

She wraps the leather of the belt tight around his throat, threading the end through the buckle and pulling tight. Will chokes out a little gasp as the edges dig in and holds it for as long as he can, listens to the slow, steady pounding of his heart in his ears, amplified by the thick strap of leather. He breathes out slow and he hears a quiet, "good boy," behind him and the words sink in through his whole body. He groans quietly and closes his eyes all the way. Beverly runs her fingers through his hair, gently at first, but then they tighten unexpectedly and Will inhales sharply before he gives into the prickling pain. Beverly drags his head back, exposing his throat, and runs the tip of her fingers around the red-rimmed edge of his throat where the belt sits. Will shudders and squirms a little, just at first. 

Just at first.

Beverly lets the belt fall down against Will's back and rubs his shoulders gently. "Do you need your hands tied too?" she asks, because sometimes Will can't escape the trap of his mind enough to let her run silk around his wrists, but today Will needs it and he nods eagerly. "Alright, hold still." She goes over to her coat rack and grabs the warm wool scarf, then comes back and crouches down behind Will again. He draws his hands back behind him and she wraps coils around his wrists, tucking and pulling and tying until he can barely move them half an inch. The knit wool breathes enough that it doesn't hurt, but it clings and holds him tight and Will breathes out a small sigh of relief.

Beverly sits back down on the couch and Will leans forward, rests his forehead on her knee and shuffles a little closer. He hears Beverly say, "I'm going to touch your neck, okay?" because Beverly rarely does anything without asking, even when Will has his hands free to stop her. He nods and Beverly's hands are back along the side of his throat, tracing over the edge of his trachea, running around to the nape of his neck and tugging and the short hair at the very back of his head. Will lets out a quiet sound and presses harder against her leg, and he can imagine Beverly's calm smile above him, watching over him. 

"I'm going to touch your back now." Will hears the words faintly, as if from a great distance away. "Okay?" He arches his back a little in assent and Beverly runs her palms over the curve of his spine, along the stiff lines of his arms down to the little V at the small of his back where his hands join together. She smoothes down his shirt gently, then digs her fingertips in as she draws back up, providing just enough pressure to drag a faint whimper out of Will.

"Do you want nails?" Beverly asks. Will nods furiously. "Okay, then I have to take your shirt off. Is that okay?" Another nod and suddenly Beverly is in front of him, deftly undoing the buttons of his plaid button-down. She pushes the open shirt from his shoulders and down his arms until it gets tangled with the scarf and wraps around again. Will pulls at his bonds and smiles a little when they give even less than before. 

Beverly goes back to the couch and reaches over to Will's neck, hooking her fingers around the belt. She tugs forward, hard, and Will shakes a bit as he loses his balance, but Beverly's other hand is at his shoulder, steadying him, so he shuffles forward a little until he can kneel sideways between her legs. He rests is forehead back on her knee, pressing into the side of the couch. Beverly runs her free hand from Will's shoulder to his back and follows the same path, down with just the ghost of fingertips and up sharply, leaving bright red scratches that will fade in a few moments, but Beverly takes a moment to admire them anyway, to run a single fingertip over each one and feel Will shiver against her.

He thinks about the way her fingers bite into his wrists, the way her nails catch against each other and pinch his skin a little, how he sometimes wants them to break through and draw little hints of blood so that he can pull up his sleeve the next morning and press into faint, faint bruises and remember that he's got something to ground himself with. But Beverly is meticulous in not leaving marks, and Will's never mentioned it anyway, so he can't be too surprised.

She scratches up his back again and again, leaving tiny pinpricks of broken blood vessels just under the surface of his skin. Will feels more and more raw, like all his nerves are being exposed, but they're being exposed in just the right ways to heal themselves from being worn thin every night for weeks since they last got fixed. 

Beverly eventually stops dragging her nails across the inflamed skin and strokes gently over the fading red lines, feeling the tiny bits of swelling that cross over Will's back and shoulders. He shudders again and moans a little when she presses into the sharpest ones, rocking back into her hands. Beverly shakes her head, even though Will can't see, and threads the fingers of one hand through his hair again. Will stills instantly and Beverly pulls his head up a little, just enough so that he can see her face. 

"I'm not going to scratch you anymore, at least not on your back," she says. "I don't want to break the skin, and I don't want you to worry about infection on top of everything else."

Will probably fails to hide the disappointment in his eyes, but he nods anyway and Beverly lets him close his eyes and look away, lets him bury his face in the fabric of her jeans with the bridge of his nose just above her kneecap. Her grip on his hair doesn't lessen any - if anything just grows tighter - but it doesn't pull him anywhere. She just holds him there for long minutes at a time, and watches as Will's shoulders twitch as he sinks deeper and deeper into wherever it is that he takes refuge from the nightmares.

Beverly lets go of Will's hair for a moment and swings her legs up onto the couch. She lies down, head propped up in one hand, and pats the edge with the other. Will obediently rests his chin on the worn leather cushion and stares up at Beverly, dazed. 

"How are you doing?" Beverly asks.

"Mm," Will mumbles. "Good." His voice is rough and slightly hoarse. It always is, when he goes under.

"Does your back hurt?" Beverly reaches over and rubs Will's back gently. He arches into the touch.

"Yeah. But it's a good hurt."

"Okay." Beverly lets her hand rest on the reddened skin, stroking her thumb back and forth over the junction of Will's back and shoulder, where the skin folds over a little on itself. "Are you still thinking?"

"I'm not sure," Will rasps, and it's honest. 

"Not quieting down at all?" Beverly asks.

"It is," Will says. "But could be more."

Beverly watches him for a few quiet moments. Then, "Do you need me to hurt you, Will?"

"Bit late for that," Will mumbles.

"You know what I mean," Beverly says. "You told me you'd tell me if that's what you needed, what you _really_ needed. I can't read your mind. So tell me, do you need me to really hurt you?"

Will closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. His lungs expand his chest and he can feel the taut skin stretch even more. He imagines, just for a second, the skin splitting and red bursting forth, running down the bumps of his spine and pooling at the small of his back and suddenly there's the feeling of metal through his neck and on his hands and the taste of iron in his mouth and his eyes shoot open wildly, darting side to side. 

Beverly's on the floor in front of him again in a second, holding his chin still and looking him dead in the eye. Will flinches but doesn't look away, matches her gaze with his as hands settle on either side of his neck, thumbs rubbing over his trachea gently. "Are you still with me?"

Will nods. "Yeah. Sorry."

"You didn't do anything, Will," Beverly says softly. "That's what we're trying to fix, it's nothing you have to apologize for."

"Okay," Will mumbles. He shakes his head a little, to try to clear it, and Beverly keeps holding him. "I think I do."

"Do what?" Beverly asks.

"Need you to hurt me," Will says. "A little."

"A little," Beverly repeats. "Just a little."

"Just a little."

"I'm going to untie your hands then, okay?" Beverly says. Will nods, so she stands up and sidles around him and works coils of scarf free from plaid sleeves and cool wrists. The scarf pools on the floor and the shirt follows after and Beverly takes each of Will's hands in turn, gently massaging his wrists until the blood flows freely enough to warm them back up.

"Can you get on your hands and knees for me?" Will nods blindly and rolls his shoulders forward a couple of times, then takes his position, bracing his palms flat on the ground. "I have to take the belt off now." 

Will whines, louder than he meant to, but Beverly shushes him with a gentle hand against his cheek. "I'm taking it off, Will. I don't have anything else to use, and I'm not letting you have something loose around your neck right now. Okay?"

Another nod. A reluctant one, but Will knows that Beverly is right, even if he doesn't want her to be. He rolls his head to the side and she loosens the buckle and pulls the loop over his head, then stands up. Will can hear the slide of leather against metal again and feels the light brush of the edge against his lower back, just for a split second and then it's gone. 

He hears Beverly tugging against the leather - she wrapped the loop around her hand, Will sees without looking, better control that way - then feels a hand pressing against the small of his back. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes," Will breathes. "Please."

"Okay," Beverly says. "I'm going to start lightly."

Will nods and lets his head drop down, breathes in and out three times, and then feels the slap of leather against his back, right between his shoulder blades. The strike is louder than it is painful - it doesn't actually hurt, not this time, but it will. They both know that it will.

He counts in his head, four and five and six and seven, until a blow to his lower back hurts enough to force a moan through clenched teeth. He hears Beverly drop down to her knees and she runs a hand over the mark - a rectangular mark, pink from impact. Will pushes back and suddenly Beverly's hand is at the back of his neck, pushing down, down, until Will's face is pressed to the floor next to his hands. He pushes back again and Beverly holds him tighter, refusing to give him any space.

"Are you going to stay down for me?" she asks.

"Yes," Will breathes.

"Good boy." Will hears Beverly stand again, hears bare heels balance on the floor, and then there's a second rain of blows, much harder than the first. Will lets out sharp, ragged breaths each time the leather strikes his skin. He loses count past twenty, past thirty, when his back is burning and his pulse is throbbing and everything that isn't sensation is lost to him. Will senses rather than feels Beverly leaning down behind him, rubbing his arms and his stomach, whispering words that he can't quite make out. He turns his head to the side and blindly presses his forehead against hers. Beverly lets out a quiet hum and strokes Will's cheek, under his eyes and he realizes that he might have been crying without really noticing it.

Beverly helps him up onto his knees, then up onto the couch. Will lies down on his stomach and pulls a pillow to himself, turning his head just enough to the side that he can still see Beverly out of the corner of his eye. Beverly sits down next to the couch and leans her head against Will's, one hand resting against his inflamed back. "How do you feel?"

"Mmm."

"Is that a good 'mm'?" Will can hear the smile in Beverly's voice.

"Yeah," Will mumbles. 

"Are you cold?" Beverly asks.

Will shakes his head no, then shrugs. "Might be soon."

"Alright, hang on." Beverly leans over and grabs a blanket from the end of the couch. She drapes it over Will's body, then slides her hand back underneath. Will closes his eyes and lets himself fade in and out, lets his pulse wash him away, lets feeling slip from him until all there is to feel is Beverly's hands resting on his back, against his forehead, carding through his hair, and the gentle kiss placed on his forehead.

He can't say when he finally comes back into himself, but Beverly is still there, one arm wrapped around his shoulders and her head tucked next to his. He worries that he's woken her up, but she looks alert enough as she turns and smiles at him. "Hey there."

"Hey," Will says sleepily. "What time is it?"

"It's pretty late," Beverly replies. "You were asleep for a while, I think. It's probably around eleven now."

"Shit, I have class tomorrow, I should get home…" Will tries to sit up, but Beverly pushes him back down.

"I'm not letting you go home like this, Will," she says firmly. "You can stay here tonight, but I don't want to leave you like this." 

Will frowns a little. "Are you sure?"

Beverly nods. "I'm sure. You can take my bed, or the couch if that would make you more comfortable."

"I'll take the couch," Will says automatically. 

Beverly shrugs. "Alright, if you're sure. I'll get you some more blankets in a while."

Will opens his mouth to say something, but Beverly settles back against him, one arm around his body and the other stroking lazily at his arm, and he lets himself sink back onto the pillow, eyes closed and relaxed.

Beverly does get him another blanket eventually, and helps him settle onto his makeshift bed. "I'll be down the hall, okay?" she says, one hand resting on the back of Will's head.

"Okay," Will says. 

"Okay." Beverly leans down and kisses him gently, just for a second. Will closes his eyes and lets himself lean into it and doesn't feel any heat or passion or lust, just a rush of safety and affection that he is not afforded very often.

He sleeps soundly that night, and in the morning when he wakes up, there's a fresh cup of coffee waiting for him on the side table.


End file.
